


Faux Pas

by Rosa52



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosa52/pseuds/Rosa52
Summary: Reunions and really shitty cocktail parties.





	1. Chapter 1

She wasn’t _listening in._ She was barely even paying attention to whatever was going on just beyond Congressman Maitland's left shoulder. She was in with the big kids, trying to appear focused on the discussion of the Kazakhstan crisis flowing around her. Admittedly, this was a shitty cocktail party. It was shitty for a hundred reasons – she was obligated to stand here, nodding along seriously to a conversation that was about seven steps behind the administration’s actual plan in Kazakhstan; she couldn’t even really _engage_ in the discussion because only half of the men in the circle had clearance high enough for them to get real information; the Senator from Wyoming was directing all of his Kazakhstan comments straight to her tits; her heels were murder; and Danny _._ He’d been back in DC for a few weeks now – not that she’d sought that information out – but she hadn’t seen him until she’d walked into the room tonight. Now that she’d seen him, though, she couldn’t stop looking at him; even when she turned away, he was a stinging presence in her peripheral vision. And when the foreign policy goon squad cornered her, it just so happened that Danny was directly in her line of sight. She was trapped, trying not to stare at him while she feigned interest in this idiotic, Central Asia-themed circle-jerk. It didn’t help that he seemed to be having fun. There had been a lull in her conversation and she’d heard his voice, so she knew he was telling a story about winter in Mongolia to a _very_ beautiful blonde woman. She couldn’t hear him anymore, but based on the blonde’s reaction, the story was hilarious. In fact, their conversation as a whole seemed pretty engrossing. The blonde had a hand on Danny’s arm, and the two had barely broken eye contact. A Congressman from Rhode Island said something blatantly incorrect about Kyrgyzstan’s military capabilities – did he mean Kazakhstan? Had she missed something that would make his point relevant? – just as Danny’s conversation partner laughed again. CJ felt vaguely nauseous.

He wanted another whiskey, but leaving Nadia alone probably wasn’t the greatest idea. He wasn’t even sure he could get her to walk to the bar with him – she might stumble, and the last thing she needed was to embarrass herself in front of this bunch of assholes. What Danny _really_ wanted was to go to bed – or at least to go home, have a beer, and watch the late nights. Flirt with his 73 year-old neighbor, maybe. Gladys made cookies when she couldn’t sleep, which was often, and he could really go for some of those. But none of that was an option with Nadia, either. He suppressed a sigh, wishing he knew exactly what was going on with her. They’d been friends for a long time, so when he walked into the party and saw her, he’d headed straight over. He hadn’t noticed anything off until he was right next to her. Of course, he’d seen Nadia about three seconds after the sight of CJ in a practically backless black gown knocked the wind out of him, which might be why he’d initially missed the fact that his friend of over a decade was absolutely blasted. He didn’t know how long she’d been at the party before he got there, didn’t know how to ask what was going on – had she taken cold medicine before going out? Skipped dinner? Finally realized her husband was a prick? He’d only realized that Nadia, a widely respected researcher at Brookings, couldn’t be allowed to talk to just about anyone at the party if she was going to get through the evening without damaging her career. Keeping her occupied was getting difficult, though. They’d been at the same table for close to an hour. Concern for Nadia was starting to be overbalanced by temptation to stare at CJ – maybe even to go and _talk_ to CJ, if he was feeling optimistic - and he’d just about run through all of his cocktail party-appropriate foreign correspondent stories. That was an issue, because drunk or sober, Nadia had no patience for boredom. It was one of his favorite things about her – she insisted on being good company and on being surrounded by good company. Unfortunately, that attribute meant there was no guarantee that Nadia wouldn’t try to walk away when the conversation got stale. At the moment, though, she was distracted, staring at a black-coated waiter with a look of abject contempt. “He looks too much like a penguin to be dignified, but not enough like a penguin to be appealing,” she opined. Caught off guard, Danny laughed. “The tails might have been overkill, I guess,” he acknowledged – and then he had an epiphany. _Canapés_. If he could get some food in her… Hoping his desperation didn’t show, he raised a hand to signal the waiter, trying to make eye contact with the man. Unfortunately, the waiter was already walking – right behind CJ, who _definitely_ now thought that Danny was waving her over. She raised a brow and leveled her trademark smoldering stare at him, but appeared to excuse herself from her group – six or seven of the most boring powerful men in Washington. Beside him, Nadia hiccupped. “That’s CJ Cregg,” she informed him. Danny groaned internally at the impending clusterfuck. There was no way to wave CJ off, and there was a good chance she was going to verbally slit his throat for flagging her down like a waiter in front of everyone who was anyone in this town. Add in drunk Nadia, and he just hoped they could avoid a scene. Danny watched her approach and bit back a sigh. Wanting her had always meant flirting with disaster, though, and he’d wanted her for so long that the threat of a trainwreck interaction no longer meant much. Besides, he thought, even if this whole thing went to shit, at least it had given him an excuse to stare at her as she walked toward him – her don’t-fuck-with-me stride set off by the swirl of her evening gown – and that alone would make it worthwhile.


	2. Chapter 2

CJ couldn’t decipher the look on Danny’s face as she walked toward him. The half-smile on his face was almost… _wistful_ , she decided, which didn’t square at all with the urgency of his expression when he’d fucking _summoned_ her. Her lips quirked into a sardonic little smile, and Danny’s brow winged up. So he was trying to read her, too, she noted. Trying and failing, as he seemed to think she was on her way over to tear him a new asshole. CJ knew she’d be justified in cutting Danny down for his uncharacteristically thoughtless gesture. She’d almost done it purely out of reflex, but something had made her pause. Maybe some would think she lacked backbone, or would snidely note that she’d always cut Danny Concannon a little slack. Really, though, _not_ humiliating Danny was the first time in the entire evening – maybe longer - that she’d done what she wanted to do. Immediately after Danny waved her down, when her initial irritation failed to ripen into steely anger, CJ realized how much she didn’t mind having a reason to walk away from stifling shop talk and puffed-up power brokers. Of course, not wanting to humiliate Danny wasn’t the same as wanting to interact him when he was wrapped in a platinum blonde, but hey – CJ could ditch that conversation without consequence, and there was nothing keeping her from cutting him down to size in front everyone if she decided he deserved it. As she reached his table, she kept her eyes fixed on his, barely sparing a glance for the woman on his arm. “So, where’re you back from, Danny?” 

She didn’t _seem_ angry, Danny thought to himself. And generally speaking, CJ wasn’t the type to hide her temper. Uncertain, still tense, he struggled to get a grip as he began to answer her question. “Belfast, mostly, this time. I… It’s good to see you, CJ.” He hesitated, wishing he’d had a little more time to formulate a Nadia strategy. “This is Nadia Andrevna,” he offered, “Brookings’ Russia expert.” Looking squarely at Nadia, CJ noticed that the other woman’s grip on Danny’s arm seemed less romantic than utilitarian. Specifically, her white knuckles suggested that she couldn’t hold herself up without Danny’s support. CJ flicked a questioning glance at Danny, who responded with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. In the interest of keeping Nadia vertical, CJ decided not to go for the handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she began. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner – I really enjoyed your article analyzing Russian influence in Central Asia.” Nadia smiled widely – a little _too_ widely. “I’m glad,” she responded, her voice just slightly slurred. “I always worry that nobody reads the Central Asia pieces. They want Kremlin gossip, Moscow this, Moscow that, but they forget that the Kremlin is gossiping about the whole country, the whole world. And of course, with Kazakhstan…” Nadia seemed to lose focus, and her voice trailed off. “… with Kazakhstan?” CJ prompted politely. She could have sworn she heard Danny groan. “You are very tall,” Nadia said sagely, nodding at the unassailable truth of her own assertion. “And I am very drunk. I think we are making Danny nervous.” CJ couldn’t hold back her laugh, the first real one of the night, as Danny tried to school his expression back into some approximation of composure. And even if it meant joining forces with his new girlfriend, CJ wasn’t going to pass up a chance to tease Danny Concannon. “You stressed out, Concannon? Feeling short and sober?”


	3. Chapter 3

Danny grinned, shaking his head at her cheap shot. He was blushing, which only made his eyes more brilliantly blue. Why hadn’t she made him blush more often? “Now that you mention it,” Danny rejoined, his voice warm and husky, “how high are your heels tonight? Because I know we’re the same height, but tonight, there’s no contest.” CJ smirked. She was kind of enjoying unapologetically towering over people. “Four inches,” she practically purred. Danny bit his lip, trying not to picture what the heels were doing for her already incredible legs. “You look amazing,” he couldn’t help but tell her, “I mean, you always do – but tonight, CJ, just…” Dumbstruck, CJ just stared at him. What the _hell_ was he doing, saying something like that to her right in front of Nadia? What the hell was he doing saying something like that to her _at all_? This was _nothing_ like Danny Concannon.

Danny might have said more, but Nadia whirled suddenly, almost yanking him with her. She was staring at a passing server’s canapé tray, nearly vibrating with need. When she turned back to Danny, her eyes were filled with tears. “I want his tiny potatoes,” she said brokenly. “And then I want to go home.” CJ couldn’t blame her for being upset – not after what Danny had just done. Danny looked concerned. “Is there anyone at home, Nadia? Anyone who can take care of you if you need it?” Nadia’s face was expressionless, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “Dmitri will be home. Dmitri is fucking the nanny. She is a Swede.” A wave of anger washed over Danny, leaving him cold. Dmitri had always been a bastard, but Nadia loved him. CJ stared at them both, thunderstruck, as the puzzle pieces of their relationship shifted, forming a totally different picture. Forcing herself to focus, she directed her attention back to the conversation, where Danny – acting _exactly_ like himself – was trying to fix things. “Do you want to stay with me?” he offered, but Nadia shook her head immediately. “I want to go home.” Sympathy plain on her face, CJ waved to the waiter, who immediately turned toward their table with Nadia’s potatoes. Turning to Danny, CJ quietly offered, “My security detail includes a car – we can all fit, so you don’t have to cab to her place and back home. We’ll just drop you off after her.” The prospect of not having to wrangle Nadia in and out of a car by himself was too appealing to pass up. “You’re sure?” “Of course, Fishboy,” she said with a faint glimmer of a smile. “I’ll go have the car pulled up, and then I’ll come back and help you get her to the door.”


	4. Chapter 4

Danny could barely breathe until they’d finally gotten Nadia and the damn potatoes in the car. Leaning against the headrest in the blessed silence of the armored SUV, he took stock of the evening. If nobody published a cell phone shot of the Chief of Staff helping a weeping woman abscond with an entire tray of canapés, Danny would never skip Mass again, he promised. Or at least, he’d attend more regularly than just Christmas and Easter. Probably. He and the Lord could work out the terms later. Not that Danny could blame anyone for snapping a picture. He couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the memory of CJ, one hand supporting Nadia’s canapé-bearing arm, offering gracious-but-hurried goodbyes to half of Washington’s leading lights. If he hadn’t been supporting most of Nadia’s body weight at the time, he might have taken a damn photo himself.

CJ heard Danny’s soft chuckle and didn’t even have to ask what he was laughing at. She cast a cautious glance at Nadia – asleep, her now-empty canapé tray balanced precariously on her lap – and decided it was safe to talk about the evening. “I wish I could have seen what we looked like,” she murmured. “If Josh were still with the Administration, he would have taken a picture. And if Sam were here, he would have helped you carry Nadia out, and the picture would be about a hundred times more beautiful.” A slow smile bloomed on Danny’s face as he opened his eyes to meet hers. “Nah,” he said quietly. “Don’t get me wrong, Sam’s a looker – facts’re facts – but nobody makes a picture more beautiful by taking you out of it.” CJ flushed, pleasure and embarrassment tangling in her chest. “I miss them,” she admitted. “Sam, Josh, Donna… It seems like things would be _better_ if they were here. Tonight was… honestly, before I went over to you and Nadia, tonight was unbearable.” Danny snorted. “Glad we could spice things up for you,” he quipped. CJ’s expression was unreadable. “I’ve missed you, Danny. I’m sorry we didn’t really get a chance to catch up tonight, but – I’m glad you were there.” A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “Really, I should just have gone over to you and Nadia sooner. Your Mongolia story seemed like a real hit.” The SUV was pulling up to the curb of Nadia’s handsome Dupont townhouse. Danny knew he shouldn’t – but what the hell. “Stop by my place for a little while tonight and I’ll tell it to you,” he offered. “We’ll have a beer and catch up.”


	5. Chapter 5

CJ stared at him for a beat, eyes wide. Just before she could respond, an agent opened the door. With a little sigh, Danny shook Nadia gently, tugging the canapé tray from her hand, and helped her out of the car. She was steadier now, he noted with relief, but he was still grateful to have one of CJ’s agents on Nadia’s other side as they made it to the door. He rang the bell rather than bother fumbling with her keys. A moment later, Dmitri, looking uncharacteristically haggard, opened the door. Danny could barely keep the loathing off his face, and Dmitri seemed aware of the need for caution. As soon as she saw him, though, Nadia lurched forward into his arms, pressing her tear-stained face against his chest as she launched into a rapid-but-quiet stream of Russian. Dmitri’s face shifted from confusion to concern to something halfway between guilt and anguish. “She had a lot to drink,” Danny offered, his tone one of controlled rage. Dmitri wrapped a protective arm around his wife, his hand moving on her back in soothing circles. “Thank you,” he responded quietly. “For being with her. For being a friend to her.” Danny still wanted to punch him, but less, maybe, now. “So this… isn’t it for you, is it?” Dmitri didn’t pretend to misunderstand Danny’s meaning. “If she doesn’t tell me to go… I still want what we have. I fucked up, Danny. I did. But I’m still hers.” Danny forced himself to swallow the last coppery tang of rage. “Yeah,” he muttered with a shrug, turning back to the SUV. He blew out a breath as he settled back into the seat across from CJ, giving the driver his address. “You OK?” CJ asked quietly. “I… I’ve known them ten years. On paper, they’re a perfect match, but when you know them - he’s always been worthless in everybody’s eyes but Nadia’s. The only positive attribute about him is that he’s hers. And I guess that’s where we are still.” CJ nodded. “You still up for beer and Mongolia?” she asked. Danny gaped at her, and a flash of uncertainty crossed her face. “If you’re too tired, I totally… I just figured, we already bailed on the party, and this is the first and probably last unscheduled evening I’ll have for –“ “ _Yes,_ ” he interrupted, unable to wait for her to finish explaining. “Absolutely. Always.” CJ laughed softly, the sound humming in his veins as they pulled away from the curb.


	6. Chapter 6

_He was_ _letting CJ Cregg into his apartment_. He was holding the door as she walked in ahead of him, and while the two Secret Service agents who had swept his apartment hadn’t been a part of his long-held fantasy, Danny was still going to savor the moment. CJ looked back at him as she crossed the threshold, flashing a smile that mirrored his own potent combination of nerves, exhilaration, and satisfaction. It had been a long road, he knew, but she was finally fucking here. Even if she just sat in his kitchen and chatted with him, it felt like an important step. 

She hadn’t expected this. Any of it. She hadn’t expected Danny to invite her over – although honestly, she probably should have seen that coming. Really, she hadn’t expected to say yes. She hadn’t expected Danny’s apartment to _look_ like this – welcoming but well put together, neutral walls balancing rich colors and interesting artwork. Not that she’d expected him to have a frat boy apartment with a mattress on the floor… but she’d kind of been expecting a frat boy apartment with a mattress on the floor. Maybe a tattered camp chair roguishly set out on the fire escape, just past the “DO NOT ENTER EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY” sign. And the police scanner, of course. Where did Danny get off, having an apartment nicer than hers? Not that CJ’s place wasn’t _nice_ , of course. She was a woman of taste. It was just that her taste had been obscured by the chaotic drudgery of her work. Her houseplants were dead, her fridge was empty except for ketchup and day-old (week-old, maybe) Chinese, she hadn’t vacuumed, and her spare room had been colonized by the Secret Service. She’d bought a painting from an artist at Eastern Market in what might have been a manic episode the last time she’d had a day off. Hogan had been visiting, had wanted to get out and see the city, damn her… and now CJ had a painting leaning against her wall, just waiting to be hung. Normally, the neglected painting didn’t eat at her, but seeing Danny’s artwork… It was a good thing they were at his place. Actually, CJ thought to herself, even if it was weird to be in his apartment, it felt good to be there. She was glad she’d come.

Snapping out of her reverie, CJ flashed a smile at Danny and sank into a kitchen chair. “Do you mind if I take off my shoes?” she asked, already slipping one off. “Not at all,” came his response, slightly muffled as he leaned into the refrigerator, pulling out two cold beers. He started to hold one out to her, then seemed to freeze. “Actually…” he began, looking a little unsure of himself. CJ arched a brow. “Are you in more of a whiskey mood, Fishboy? Or are you going to insist that I keep the stilts?” “Nah,” he returned, then choked on a half-laugh as the rest of her statement caught up to him. “Ah, I was just going to say – do you want to borrow some sweats? Y’know, be comfortable while we catch up?” CJ smirked, considering. “Are you suggesting I don’t look comfortable in my dress?” “You look incredible in your dress,” Danny responded frankly. “But I’m ditching my suit, and I just thought… I don’t mind being underdressed, but I’ve got plenty of extra clothes if you’re interested.” CJ bit her lip, taking a moment almost purely for form, because honestly, sweats sounded amazing. And sure, she hadn’t planned to stay long, and staying in her evening gown would definitely keep her on a tighter timeline, but she hadn’t seen Danny in over a year. There was nothing she should be doing instead of sitting in his kitchen, letting him make her comfortable, and she wanted the damn sweats. “I’d like that,” she admitted, and Danny grinned amiably, putting the beers back in the fridge. “Follow me.”


	7. Chapter 7

It could have been awkward, she knew. She was in Danny’s bedroom, putting on borrowed pajamas – and while she wasn’t rifling through his underwear drawer, she wouldn’t lie to herself and pretend that she hadn’t taken a look around. Like the rest of the apartment, Danny’s room was well-appointed without being starchy. His bed, covered by a slate-blue comforter, was unmade; a worn paperback edition of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ lay on his bedside table. She couldn’t suppress a smile when she saw his police scanner sitting by the window. He’d told her she could hang her dress in his closet if she wanted, and she paused for a moment to take in the way it hung beside his suits – like it belonged there, like it was among friends. Shrugging on the Notre Dame t-shirt he’d left her and cinching his sweatpants tight around her hips, she headed back toward the kitchen.

 _She’d been a minute_ , Danny thought to himself. Maybe her zipper was stuck…? He was halfway tempted to knock on the door and ask if she needed a hand. Although he honestly couldn’t imagine where the zipper would be on that dress – certainly not on the back, where the bare, graceful line of CJ’s spine had been pulling his gaze all evening. Biting back a groan, Danny also acknowledged the virtual certainty that CJ would laugh him out of his own apartment if he suggested that she couldn’t get dressed – or undressed – without him. Unbidden, memories of CJ - smooth skin, soft lips, body framed by ballgowns past - slid through his brain. Swallowing hard, he willed them away, trying to think of anything else. If she came out to find him dreaming about her body (and he wasn't sure _how_ she'd know, but she _would_ ) , she’d bolt, and they wouldn't get to talk. And hey, maybe she just took a little longer to change. Or hell, she could be going through his sock drawer, making sure he hadn’t stashed a lock of her hair away in there. Fair enough. And then she was walking down his hallway in his sweats, and he knew - had already known - it wasn’t the dress, beautiful as it was, that had knocked him flat when he first saw her at the party. _Goddamn_ , CJ Cregg was something else. Passing her a beer, he sat across the table from her, enjoying the play of the lamplight on her face. She took a sip of her beer and met his eyes. “So,” she began with an expectant half smile, “tell me about Mongolia.”


	8. Chapter 8

He told her about Mongolia, enjoying the way her rich laugh filled his apartment. About halfway through the story, CJ stood, grabbed two more beers, and led the way to the couch, apparently settling in for the long haul. Since she wasn’t in a rush, he told her all of his entertaining, cocktail party-appropriate foreign correspondent stories. This time, he could even enjoy the stories as he told them without feeling that he was somehow obscuring the truth, because CJ, unlike the usual cocktail party audience, didn’t just laugh and move on. She asked the follow-up questions that filled in the un-funny context of each story. When she didn’t flinch, he told her the stories he _didn’t_ tell at cocktail parties. She told him about her new team – Kate Harper, who Danny thought he would have liked, and Will Bailey, whose pockets she was stuffing with olives until she was sure of him. Danny liked Will Bailey and told her so, but made it clear that he probably would have liked him better with olives in his pockets.

She only shared snippets of her work. He understood, even as he chafed at being unable to give her what she’d given him: the relief of really being _heard._ The little bits she did share – and the few follow-ups she answered – had worry settling in his chest. No Josh, no Sam, and something vaguely off-kilter with Toby – not that she’d mentioned it, but he had eyes. Even with the worry, though, he was so fiercely fucking _proud_ of her. Chief of fucking staff, wearing the weight of the world like it was custom-fitted, every inch a queen. She smiled at him, eyes heavy-lidded, and moved so her back was fitted to his chest. His breath caught, but hers remained steady. “Margaret’s with me now,” she informed him, her voice low and husky. “She’s either going to kill me or make me immortal, and I don’t think she’s decided which one yet.”

CJ savored the rumble of Danny’s surprised chuckle against her spine. “How’d you settle on those options?” came his teasing reply. CJ snorted. “She’s started pushing immune-boosting tisanes on me. I think she makes them herself? So, at first I was thinking _definitely_ poison. It’s very Margaret, you know – subtle, classy, effective. Insane. But yesterday, she brought it in, looked me dead in the eye, and told me that when we’re out of the White House, I should get a pet.” Danny tensed behind her, and CJ suppressed a laugh. “Gail’s _fine._ I was going to say that I already _have_ a pet – Gail – but I think Margaret considers her a peer at this point. Anyway, I was taken aback, so I just said, a pet? Margaret acted like this was all very obvious. She said I should get a Galapagos tortoise.” “CJ, those can live for a _century_.“ “ _Exactly._ That’s what I said – Margaret, those can live for more than a hundred years. And she nodded, and just pushed the damn tea at me.” Danny huffed a soft laugh. “Well, if you do turn out to be immortal, I want the exclusive.” CJ smirked settling her head into more comfortably in the crook of his neck. “Sure thing, Fishboy,” came her quiet response, blurred with sleep at the edges. Danny settled his arm across her waist and leaned his head back against the couch, sinking into dreams that smelled like CJ’s shampoo.


	9. Chapter 9

_The world was ending._ Something near his head was emitting shrieking beeps, and someone – something?! – was pounding insistently at his door at the asscrack of not-quite-4:15 in the morning. Danny struggled to sit up, only to be pressed back as CJ used his chest to propel herself off the couch. Danny watched blearily as she opened the door and had a brisk, hurried conversation with the agents standing outside. It was too early for coherent thought, but if this was the end of the world, at least he could say that he got to see  CJ Cregg’s bedhead on his last day on Earth. Groggily, he shoved his fingers through his hair and rose to his feet. CJ seemed frozen by the door. Unsure, Danny walked toward her slowly. “Work?” he asked quietly, opening with a softball question. She nodded, clearly still distracted. “Nothing bad, just… I mean. Yeah.” He nodded in return. “Want a toothbrush?” That seemed to get through. “ _Yes._ Oh, God, yes.” He chuckled, moving toward the bathroom toothbrush drawer. Behind him, he heard CJ quietly mutter, “ _Shit._ ” Toothbrush in hand, he turned to her, quirking a brow. “Shit,” she said again, less vehemently. “What is it?” She put toothpaste on the brush, then gestured to her pajamas. “ _This_ ,” she sighed. “I have spare suits in my office – Margaret has me stocked for Armageddon – but I still have to walk through the West Wing, and my choices are sweats or an evening gown. It’s totally unprofessional. People will stare, and idiots and interns will gossip, and I won’t even be able to cut them down properly because it’ll be my fault. ” Danny fought back a snicker and aimed for a soothing tone. “They wouldn’t, CJ. They won’t. Even the interns and the idiots. Before 5:00 AM, you probably won’t run into anyone but your team and security, and even if you do - sweats or gown, you’re the Chief of Staff.” “I don’t even have options, really, do I? My choices are evening gown or evening gown, which absolutely guarantees that people will be… drawing conclusions –“ “Why are the sweats ruled out?” Danny asked. Rinsing her mouth, CJ rolled her eyes at him. “They’re _yours_ , Fishboy. I’m not going to claim them for the executive branch.” Danny snorted, handing her a face towel. “I’m relieved to know you aren’t claiming eminent domain over my pajamas. For now, though, keep ‘em. Get ‘em back to me the next time we see each other.” CJ looked suddenly tense, and Danny’s stomach clenched. _Fuck that, though_ , he reminded himself. _She wanted to see you last night, and you want to see her every night, and there’s no fucking harm in asking. If what you just did even rises to that level._ He kept his tone easy. “I promise, you won’t even have to help me steal canapés. Just take the damn sweats, CJ.” CJ swallowed hard. He knew, had to know, that she wanted to see him again, right? Of course, she also wanted to jump out the window at the thought of another commitment, and he’d _definitely_ noticed that, so… She plucked nervously at the drawstring of her – _his_ , she reminded herself – sweatpants. “Thank you,” she began, hoping she was pulling off a smile. “I really will get them back to you when… ah, next time.” He looked sad, she noted – resigned, like a man reconciling himself to losing more than just sweatpants. _Fuck._ “I mean it, Danny.” He smiled, but he didn’t look convinced. A voice floated down the hallway – “Ms. Cregg? The car is out front.” Before she could let herself think about it too much, she stepped forward to embrace him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she made herself pull away. He looked a little stunned, but his smile was brighter now. “Tell you what,” she said, feeling a slightly wicked grin spread across her face. “Keep the dress as collateral – until next time.”  


	10. Chapter 10

_Well,_ Danny thought wryly, staring at the front page of the  _Post_ ’s local section, _at least I don’t have to worry about going to Mass more frequently._  “PARTY FOUL,” screamed the headline, which was followed by a full-color photo of the three of them leaving the party. He took a moment to be grateful - candid press photos were hit or miss, but this picture was nice by anybody's standard. Nadia almost looked steady on her feet, the canapé tray balanced in her hand; CJ was laughing, head thrown back, highlighting the graceful column of her throat; and Danny was grinning at her with such obvious adoring wonder that he had to bite back a curse. He wanted to burn every copy of the paper before CJ saw it, but he also wanted a framed copy of the photo for every wall in his apartment, so he cabined the impulse to do something – anything – and opted to sleep for a little longer. Sliding into his bed, he noticed CJ’s dress, seemingly at home next to his suit. _Sap_ , he chided himself, but he couldn’t hold back a smile as he rolled over and settled into the pillows. 

Margaret had been practically vibrating with curiosity since CJ had gotten in that morning. When she’d handed CJ the _Post_ with the local section tabbed, she’d been obviously apprehensive – clearly bracing herself for CJ’s reaction. There had been nothing, though – or at least, nothing like the panic attack Margaret had been expecting. CJ had stared at the photo, sure, but then just chuckled softly and asked for the morning meeting schedule. The article stayed out on CJ’s desk all day, always with the photo facing up. The West Wing was buzzing about it – by lunch, everyone knew that the President had started out angry, but had laughed at the story for a full five minutes; Toby had broken three coffee mugs about it; Will was snickering under his breath; and Kate was a walking arched eyebrow. The First Lady was making very hush-hush arrangements to have a copy of the photo framed, and Carol was delirious with joy. To the casual observer, Margaret was researching Galapagos tortoise rescues, but in reality, she hadn’t absorbed an iota of information. Her focus was consumed by whatever was happening behind CJ’s office door, where there was no _way_ CJ wasn’t having _some kind of reaction to this_ , even if no sign of it was apparent as she handled the day’s agenda. Around 3:30 in the afternoon, Margaret’s wait was finally over. She walked in to hand CJ a briefing book on honestly who the hell knew what and found CJ holding the article in her hand, staring at the neatly folded set of sweats sharing space with her suits in the office closet. When the door opened, CJ held out a hand for the briefing book, but didn’t even bother setting the article down. “Is this the Kazakhstan briefing book or the briefing about the Turkmen natural gas pipeline negotiations?” Margaret paused. “Honestly…” she began hesitantly, “I have no idea.” To her surprise, CJ laughed and plunked the briefing book down unceremoniously on the desk. Margaret was just about to turn and leave her to it – read: return to furiously speculating on _why precisely CJ Cregg had come to work in sweats that had a 96.4% chance of belonging to Danny Concannon –_ when CJ called after her. “Margaret?” Margaret’s breath caught. “Yes?” “Get me Danny Concannon, would you?”

“Party foul, huh?” Her voice on the other end of the line was warm with amusement, and Danny felt his own grin widening in response. “Yeah, apparently it’s rude to raid the snack table and rush out. I think it’s unfair that they didn’t acknowledge that snagging food and busting out of that party was pure self-preservation. Any reasonable person would have done the same.” CJ laughed. “Point of clarification: we didn't raid the snack table; we all but mugged a waiter. It's much more impressive." He snickered, and she let herself have a moment ( _another_ moment, fine) to appreciate the way he was looking at her in the picture. "I can't believe you never told me that  _Post_ local was staffed by such tight-asses. They made it seem like we violated every rule of etiquette in existence. Toby’s threatening to enroll me in cotillion.” Danny leaned back in his desk chair, savoring the easy connection. “I went to cotillion,” he offered. “Hell, I _aced_ cotillion. I can foxtrot like you wouldn’t believe.” CJ’s delighted cackle shot through him. “In fact,” he continued, “you shouldn’t settle for anything but the best. I’ll tutor you in etiquette – give Toby’s inner Junior League-er some peace. We can figure out which rules we missed breaking at the party last night and absolutely _smash_ them. You know. Next time."  


End file.
